


I Don't Know Where I'm Going (But I Sure Know Where I've Been)

by HallsofStone2941



Series: Crazy Life [5]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholic!Thorin, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Brief swearing, Homeless!Thorin, Mentions of Character Death, Mentions of Suicide, Mentions of Violence, Multi, Not Beta Read, Sad with a Happy Ending, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Thorin's POV, angsty beginning, but happy ending, depressed!Thorin, fem!Bilbo, ptsd!Bilbo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 02:18:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1923030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HallsofStone2941/pseuds/HallsofStone2941
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Thorin, right before his eighteenth birthday, runs away from the ruined remains of his life, he does not expect to survive.</p>
<p>Not that he had actually given thought to it, surviving.</p>
<p>The twenty-one missing years of Thorin's life after he leaves (runs away from) Erebor. Direct sequel to "You Know I Saw a City Burning"</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Know Where I'm Going (But I Sure Know Where I've Been)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the longest oneshot (and my favorite) in the series. I just love writing Thorin's POV - it's very easy, for me.

When Thorin, right before his eighteenth birthday, runs away from the ruined remains of his life, he does not expect to survive.

Not that he had actually given thought to it, surviving. He had stood on the porch of the home he could no longer afford, still wearing the black suit from that afternoon's funeral service. His mind had wandered, remembering the years of learning and preparing, all the meetings and questions, growing up in the spotlight fully expected and expecting to take on the family business, and wondering when everything went so wrong. He could not see it, not even then, when he had known the outcome of every decision he and his family had ever made.

He had thought to himself, throughout his short life, that perhaps a chance to make his own choice, to pursue his own desires, would have been nice. Yet he had fit so perfectly into the life and function of Arkenstone Jewelers, feeling every tiny cell of its entity ebb and flow around him, and adjusting instinctively to nudge it in the right direction. Good business sense, his father had said, when Thorin, age ten, had made suggestions that proved to dig Arkenstone out of the rut that his grandfather's loose spending habits had put it in.

It was Thorin who, after learning about stock shares at age twelve, had asked why Arkenstone was not a public company. After some inconspicuous polling, the company's accountant, Groin, had said that their business could only benefit from turning it over to the public. And so they had.

If Thorin had not asked, had not suggested making Arkenstone public, it would have stayed private, safely in the hands of the people he could trust. If it had stayed private, Smaug would have never set his greedy fingers on it. If Smaug had never gotten his hands on it, no one would have murdered Thror, or sweet, intelligent, curious Frerin. It was as simple as that.

So Thorin had stared up at the night sky, at the billions of stars that shone, unhindered by city lights or polluted clouds. Had known, thanks to his logic-driven brain, that he was responsible for Granddad being gone, and Frerin. Had known that his father's suicide had been caused by grief and guilt. Had known that his family had been driven away like a pack of hunted animals, scattered to all corners of the country, in the hopes of escaping whatever menace had shadowed them in Erebor. Had known that the rest of the town, nestled in the base of the Rockies, was reeling from the loss of fortune and fame, and would try to limp along, no longer aided by the crutch they came to depend on, and curse the Durin name for dangling the prospect of a better home in front of them only to lose it all too soon.

He had seen, then, what a horrible man he was, to bring about such destruction. A pity that Dis still had to put up with him – well, at least she had Kilan. The moron may have knocked her up, but he had stayed by her side. A good man, Thorin had thought as he stared up at the stars that night. Better than he could ever be.

The question had come as he contemplated the tiny dots of light - _if I ran, long enough, far enough, could I reach the end of the stars?_ Logically, he had known it was impossible. But what had logic ever done for him? He had wanted to know for certain, to test for himself, to find the end of the stars, or to die trying.

So he had run. He had run, and run, and is still running, even as the dawn begins to turn the barren landscape an earthy red. His semi-long hair, which should have been cut before the funeral, bounces around his head and gets in his eyes, but he keeps running. He does not register the ache in his legs or the burning in his lungs, does not consider the sweat soaking his expensive suit or the fact that the stars have long ago disappeared. Does not think about Dis, pregnant and alone – she will be alright, she has Kilan, and Fundin, and Balin, and dear, young Dwalin, whose life will never be the same. He spares a moment of guilt for his youngest cousin – he knows the boy admires him – but reminds himself that there is nothing to admire, and the sooner Dwalin realizes this, the better off he will be.

He runs until his legs collapse, forcing him face-down in the dirt, and then he sleeps, the sun shining on his face and sweat drying uncomfortably beneath the heavy suit. He does not care if he never wakes up.

*****

Waking up has become the worst part.

He sleeps at odd hours of the day, when his body is pushed to the end of its battery life. When he dreams, it is of the fires that Smaug's men set, of his family, and his employees and their families, burning, or bloodied, or both, with eyes unseeing, or filled with tears and begging him for help. He wakes up covered in sweat, even in the middle of the night. Each time he jolts out of the dream world, he becomes a little more disappointed to find himself alive.

His running has become sluggish walking. His throat and mouth do not remember the taste of food and water. He is parched, and moving is a struggle, but he does not stop. If he stays still, they catch up with him – the memories, the guilt, the faces of the dead, and those of the living he left behind. So he keeps running, desperate to find a place where they cannot follow. He no longer runs to the stars, anymore – now they sit in the sky like a heavenly jury, watching, knowing his every act, every transgression, and judging him. He runs away and away and away, hoping to outrun the thoughts and the stars, or to drive himself to a point where he does not remember himself.

When he sees the water pump standing outside the first town he has come across, he does not hesitate to drink. Some small part of his mind reminds him that his thirst is his punishment, that he should simply let himself die, but greater is the primal instinct to survive. The water gushes around his face, soaking his hair and his dusty, torn suit, and enveloping his tongue in what seems to be the sweetest of wines. He uses the spigot to hold himself up, every muscle in his body attempting to give in to gravity. After several long minutes, during which he soaks his hands and splashes water on his face, he shuts the pump off. The fabric on his suit is already drying in the hot September air, and he stumbles into an alleyway, where the backdoor to a restaurant appears next to a large dumpster. Promising himself to look through it later, he curls up in the shade cast by the dumpster and falls asleep.

He awakens in the dark, mind clear from an unusual lack of dreams. Head turning warily to scan for any late-nighters, he cautiously rises, cramped muscles protesting, and turns to the dumpster. A look inside reveals dozens of half-eaten meals, some only a few hours old. Normally, of course, this would repulse him, but now anything resembling food is like manna from heaven. Besides, most burger restaurants use ingredients with disgusting amounts of preservatives, which, ironically, makes his meal safer than if it came from a high-end restaurant. He eats carefully, wary of regurgitating the only food he may come across in a while, and stops after three mostly-whole burgers.

He barely sets the lid to the dumpster down when a shuffling sound from the alley entrance distracts him. Like a feral animal, he whips his head around to stare at the newcomer. The person has torn clothing, long hair, and a scraggly beard – quite obviously a homeless man, and Thorin's lip curls in distaste before he realizes that he, too, is homeless now. Blinking, he stares at the man, who has not moved since seeing Thorin. Carefully lifting the dumpster lid, Thorin flicks his eyes to the contents and grabs a half-eaten burrito and some french fries. Holding both his hands out, he walks slowly toward the man, offering the food. Glittering eyes watch him suspiciously, darting to the food for a few long seconds before watching him again – though not, Thorin notices, meeting his gaze. Finally the man snatches the food out of his hands and tears into it hungrily. It is only when every last crumb is gone that the man leans against the brick wall of the restaurant and slides down, eyes still on Thorin.

“You new to this?” the man asks with a rough voice. Thorin does not move or speak, but the man chuckles, the noise sounding painful, and looks out the alley entrance. “Rule number one, kid: if you find food, you keep it. No sharing shit – you take care of yourself.”

*****

_Rule number two_ , the man's voice echoes in his head as he walks. _Don't look like you're new to this. Ditch the jacket, kid. If you look like you come from money, you'll get the living shit beat out of you_. Thorin dumps his blazer his a trashcan and puts on the thick Carhartt jacket he found in the Goodwill drop box. The white dress shirt became fuel for a fire a few days ago, and he managed to give his slacks to a homeless man with an upcoming job interview in exchange for a comfortable pair of jeans.

_Rule number three: unless it's your turf, you grab what you can and move on. Don't try for sharing – it don't work like that in this world._ He stops when he is hungry, or tired. He sleeps here, takes some food from there, then moves on. Town to town, county to county, state to state. Sometimes he is rudely awoken by police, sometimes a neighborhood dog or unfriendly hobo chases him out of the area before he gets what he needs.

_Rule number four: you're on the bottom, now, kid. No point in acting all high and mighty – if someone gives you something, don't let your pride keep you from taking it. People like us, we depend on taking whatever comes our way and making it work for us. If it's given freely, hey, that's one less thing they can arrest you for._ Once, he had been the one to pass out coins on the street, and attend charity events to help the homeless. The ones he came into contact with were always angry, always suspicious, and never grateful. It used to upset him, but now he understands that anger. All he has left is his pride, but even that disappears when he accepts something from a kind stranger. Maybe someday he will be able to muster the proper anger, but for now he just moves, day by day, without any real care or destination in mind.

*****

He joins the army, eventually, though he is not entirely sure how it happens. The two years of service find him stronger, healthier, and in better shape, but they put him no where near the action, and he leaves the service just as empty and apathetic as he was when he started. He does find himself in possession of money, though – something he has not needed for five years.

He already knows the ins and outs, the tricks and tips of living life on the move. America is the waste capital of the world, so finding adequate food and clothing is never an issue. One thing that “normal people” hoard religiously, though, is alcohol – very hard to come by without the thing homeless people never appear to have: money.

At first, the drinks becomes bartering items – something used to get better clothes and finer, safer food. But then Thorin shares a drink or two with his “buyers”, and finds that the numbness from the alcohol chases away the grief and guilt that he never managed to outrun. So he drinks to keep his fellow homeless men company, then he drinks to keep his nights peaceful, and then he drinks when he realizes that the pain comes back and getting into fights helps push it away. He enjoys this lack of judgment – it eases his guilt and encourages him to fill the emptiness in his heart with the warmth from the bottle and the distraction of physical pain.

So he lives his life moving from place to place, drinking and stealing and fighting, and even catching odd jobs here and there that help pay for his addiction.

He hates his moments of sobriety, when he is neither drunk nor hung over. They remind him, with painful clarity, of the mess he made of his life, both before and after the fall of Arkenstone. Oh, he knows he could have risen above that loss; finished school, gone to college, worked like a dog to eke out a living for himself and his baby-laden sister. But this life is free of responsibility – of everything, really – and he knows he probably would have fucked everything up anyway. Far better to cut his ties early and free everyone of his failed self.

He also wonders, when he looks up at the stars with no bottle to keep him company, if this was what Granddad felt like, not caring where his money went, or what the consequences were, so long as his immediate wants were satisfied. They both have (or had) addictions, he knows, just of different kinds. Thror may have been able to afford his addiction, but Thorin never dragged anyone else down with his.

He does not realize how many years have passed until he wanders into a town in the northwest corner of the country during Christmas (Oregon? Washington? Maybe northern California?), and sees, through one of the frost-covered, decorated windows, a family of four sitting around a fire with a tree covered in lights standing in the corner. The scene is cozy, and despite Thorin's personal rule not to intrude, he cannot look away.

The parents both have dark hair, and Thorin cannot see their faces. A young, dark-haired boy, maybe of six or seven, is standing in front of the fire, moving around in what seems to be some sort of theatrical show. The final person, a child older than the first, sticks out with his golden hair. He laughs at the younger boy's antics, and his face turns toward the window, right where Thorin is peering in.

Familiar blue eyes widen at the sight of the strange man out in the snow, and the lad (twelve, Thorin does the math and knows him to be twelve years old) shouts. Thorin is moving, running around the side of the house and hiding in the shadows, a master of melting into the night. He uses his long, dark hair to cover his face, knowing that the colors of his clothes and skin will blend in with the dark, snowy night.

A light appears onto the yard around the corner, with a bulky, oddly-shaped shadow stretching out over the snow. Thorin holds his breath, though he doubts the family can hear him.

“I saw someone, I _know_ I did!” a boy's voice says, high enough to indicate he has not yet hit puberty.

“Dis?” a man's voice (Kilan's voice, Thorin realizes, though it is slightly deeper than he remembers) cuts through the muted fall of snowflakes.

“I don't see anyone here, Fili. Come on, let's go inside where it's warm.” Thorin's heart _aches_ like it has not in twelve blurry years. Thorin leans against the wall of the house next to... _hers_ , breathing raggedly. His head tilts to look up at the sky, face contorting as tears fall from his eyes and freeze on his wind-bitten cheeks.

He had expected never to hear her voice again. Never thought, if he did, that it would hurt so much. She had been so annoying as a kid, constantly on the phone, constantly bugging him. Once, he would have thought it a relief to be free of her, and it is only now, hearing her voice again after twelve years of silence, that he knows how wrong he was.

And it had never occurred to him, when he first had learned that Dis was pregnant, that it would not just be _her_ child. That tiny spark of life he had ignored in favor of dealing with their failing company became _his nephew_. His flesh and blood, rounding his sister out and becoming the most important thing in her life. He never got to see it – see his sister glow with happiness, or be there to hold the newborn in his arms. He once met a man who had lost everything – his home, his job, his wife, and his daughter. He had said that there was no greater feeling in the world than holding that tiny baby for the first time. “No greater thing. Even after everything, I wouldn't trade that memory for all the world.”

Great, shuddering sobs wrack his frame, muted behind his clenched fist. He had screwed up on so many levels. How? How had he ever thought this would solve things?

He puts the memory at the front of his mind. Not one, but two nephews, healthy and happy. But missing someone, someone who should have been there, because Kilan had no siblings, and Frerin never got to live long enough to see the boy that looks so much like him. They are missing their uncle.

He does not know if Dis would let him come back – doubts it, as she probably thinks he is dead. But he decides, in that moment, that he will try, will do anything, anything at all, to be a part of those boys' lives, even if he will not get as much time as he wants.

He memorizes her address, and looks her up in the phone book to memorize her number, too. He will not call her, will not appear until he gets his act together. He makes a conscious effort not to drink – it is quite easy, for every time he reaches for the bottle, he sees his nephew – Fili – staring at him through the window pane. He tries to clean up, finding nicer clothes and attempting to look presentable enough to make money. But he also tries to be more honest, and the money goes to food and rags that he would normally acquire by stealing, rather than towards appearing human. He realizes, in his efforts, that he has lost all sense and memory of manners, and is little more than a wild beast walking on two legs.

The winter does not make things easy, and Thorin contracts a cold that threatens to become deadly. He is on someone else's turf, too, though he fights the man to stay near his sister – he will not abandon her now, even if she does not know it.

When he finally comes to his senses after several weeks of grogginess (partway due to the cold but also due to his very strong remedy), he shuffles to the road in time to see a moving van leave the driveway of his sister's house, and vanish down the road.

Most of the neighborhood thinks a dog is gravely wounded by the passing car, judging by the howl that cuts through the air, though the only prints in the fresh mud are human.

Thorin occupies the now-empty home, avoiding realtors and interested buyers, though he trashes the place enough that people stop coming by. The police never find him, though, as he buries himself in a passageway under the stairs that bears evidence of being a children's hideout.

His heart lives in his throat most of the time, lumpy and tasting of alcohol. He spends his time in the kitchen and the master bathroom, where the smell of her favorite perfume lingers, and in the hideout and kids' room, trying to gain some idea of what his nephews are like by the whispers and lingering traces they left behind.

He finds a letter, eventually, crumpled and careworn, hidden beneath layers of dust and a writing pad they must have forgotten. The alcohol in his head makes the words blurry, but after several concentrated efforts, he makes out enough of the words to piece together the meaning. It seems that his cousin Dain convinced his sister to move to—he checks the front of the envelope—Colorado.

For the first time in a long while, he has a destination. There is no map, and the only compass he has is the light of the sun, though the weather in this corner of the world seems to prefer clouds and rain. He wanders aimlessly, finding himself at the edge of the ocean at one point, and considers, briefly, entering and never coming out. But he remembers Fili, and little Kili (as the letter calls his younger nephew), and trudges on, hitching rides when he can. His sense of direction has always been terrible – or perhaps it is only that he has never needed it before – so it is some time before he even finds himself in the right state. Then, using the free internet offered at the library (it takes a while to learn how to navigate; he has been out of touch with technology), he finds Dain. And Gloin and Oin, who apparently live fairly close to Nain's son, and are visiting him when Thorin spies on his house. But Dis, he hears, through pieces of conversation, lives farther east – much farther east. He only catches her number – committing it to memory – before the visit is over. He contemplates walking up to the near-strangers that wear his family's faces, but decides against it. For too long he has depended on his own skills to survive, and he is not prepared to face them. Not yet.

When, a week later, he sees the quiet young woman working behind the soup kitchen's counter, he spares her no more than a brief thought, a tiny question as to what makes her so timid. She flinches at random things – well, they _seem_ random – and he tries to imagine how an obvious victim of abuse manages to work in a soup kitchen, where the occupants are always gruff and angry and frightening. He knows these are just appearances, acts to keep others from coming too close, but the workers in these places almost never do. She is brave, then, perhaps, or messed up enough to seek danger. He has seen it before.

Saving her from the man threatening her is not exactly planned, but it gets him a free meal and a bed for the night, though there is very little comfort in it when Dwalin towers over him angrily.

“We thought you were dead,” Dwalin growls at him, completely unrecognizable from the boy with big eyes that followed him around like a puppy. In fact, had Belle not introduced them, and Dwalin not recognized him, and Balin not come in at the time when Thorin was going to run far, far away from the man giving him the scariest look he had ever seen, Thorin could have passed Dwalin by on the street a thousand times in his life and never looked sideways.

“So did I,” Thorin admits after a long moment of silence. He cannot meet Dwalin's gaze, cannot look at the man whose life, like all the others, was ruined because of him. Instead, he stares at the kitchen, where a half-cooked pot of bouillabaisse sits on the stove and ingredients are scattered around the counters. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that Dwalin's arms are crossed, muscles bulging and tendons clearly defined. Finally, the taller (but younger) man huffs.

“She promised you food, and a bed, so I won't go back on that. But understand this, Thorin,” Dwalin pierces Thorin with his grey eyes, “you're not family, right now. You're a bum off the streets that my sister offered a meal and a place to stay. And the _only_ reason I am not throwing you out right now, promises be damned, is because you got Bolg's man off her.”

Thorin nods, swallowing. He does not know the story behind Bolg; he thought the man threatening Belle was only a common mugger (though he does know, from personal experience, how deceptive those can be). But it is clear that Dwalin cares a lot for his “sister”, and decides it is best not to incur more of Dwalin's wrath.

“So,” Dwalin says, turning to the bouillabaisse, “what brings you to Colorado?”

Thorin has to clear his throat, twice, before answering. “Dis,” he says softly. Dwalin sets the spoon down and turns back around, eyebrow raised and arms refolding themselves.

“Really? Well, you've come to the wrong place. I have no idea where she is.”

“She's here. I mean,” he clears his throat again, unnerved by Dwalin's gaze, which examines him like a scientist examines a cell through an electron microscope. “She's in Colorado. Dain convinced her to move here, a few years ago.”

“So, you've spoken with Dain? He called me recently – didn't say anything about you.”

“No, I've – look, it's a long story,” he drags his hand through his hair and shakes it, knotting the locks even more. Dwalin is in his face before he can blink, towering over him and snarling.

“Nineteen fucking years, Thorin, and not a word. Whatever the hell you've been up to, I think at least one of us – your fucking family – deserves to hear it.” So while Dwalin cooks seafood and soup, Thorin recounts his years. The majority of it is covered in five minutes – what is there to say? But finding Dis, and seeing Fili and Kili, livens his voice, and his heart, just a little. The goal he made himself six years ago has given his life more meaning than all the other years combined.

Dwalin sets the bowls, filled with soup, down, just as Balin comes back in from Belle's home. “So you've been drinking yourself to oblivion this whole time, until you just _decided_ you're going to be a part of Dis' – and your nephews' – lives?” Dwalin laughs derisively. “Shit, Thorin, you have a lot of fixing up to do before you do anything.”

Thorin knows it, and says nothing. Dinner is a tense affair, with Dwalin reiterating to Balin what Thorin told him. Hearing it come out of someone else's mouth puts his life into stark reality, and Thorin cannot look either brother in the eye afterward. They give him the room that Thorin assumes Belle once stayed in, and return to the kitchen, where he can hear them murmur quietly to each other.

Thorin awakens before dawn, disoriented. When the memories of the previous day come back to him, he puts his face in his hands and groans.

He disappears without notice, not even taking something, as he would usually do. He leaves a small piece of paper with Dis' name and number on it, though – maybe, if someone else talks to her first, she will be more willing to see him some day.

He walks and wanders, drinks and fights, and mourns what he lost, what he could have been, and what he wants but what seems impossible to acquire. He stays in Colorado, rooted to the place where his family now resides. He sees Dain, giving the man the shock of his life, and gets directions to Gloin's place. Oin, now a doctor, gives him a thorough examination, and a shitload of shots that make his arms ache for weeks. He wanders to other places, too – to Nevada and Wyoming, and even Nebraska, though the tornado he sees is enough to convince him to return to Colorado. He drinks less, he thinks, though still too much to be proud – he lost his pride so long ago, and now he feels like a wandering ghost, searching for the sense of family and belonging that was there before Arkenstone fell; before his spirit died.

He finds himself in Belle's soup kitchen a surprising number of times. At first, they do not interact; Belle is always quiet and shy, and Thorin does not feel that his presence counts as any form of pleasant companionship. But one day, she brings the food with her as the shift ends, sitting there and telling him simple things: what she knows about Arkenstone, stories about living with Balin and Dwalin. Her life comes in layers, a long story spread out over the months and added to whenever he stops by. He rarely talks to Dwalin, though sometimes he catches Balin on the way home from work. The man, hair already dark grey, seems more sympathetic to Thorin's plight, and more willing to listen, but always appears tired and haggard, and Thorin's words dry up in his throat.

One day, he goes to Belle's house to hear that she spoke with Dis, two months back, when Dwalin called her. The news violently stirs the deadened emotions in his chest, but he forces himself to appear calm. Belle gives him frustratingly little information, beyond “she seems nice, but tired. Like she's missing something,” in her soft voice, hands clasping her mug and eyes fixed on the table.

And then the big truth comes out. “My parents died when I was eight. Balin and Dwalin found me living in a box in an alley; they took me in.” She meets his eyes then, waiting for his reaction.

But he does not know what to say. One side of him realizes that she had been homeless for a time, like him, but not for nearly as long. And he becomes angry, because it feels as if she is trying to liken their situations, as if she could possibly understand what he has been through.

He stands abruptly, glowering at her. “You know _nothing_ of my life,” he hisses.

His drinking, his fights are for this: to shout what he cannot say quietly, to hurt others that they might understand his misery. And here is a perfect target: a weak, defenseless woman already used to being yelled at. He does not comprehend the words he says, or the volume; only takes a sick satisfaction from the fear in her eyes. He is an animal, a talking animal, trying to find whatever means necessary to stop hurting, and he spares no thought for her pain. It is not until he is lying on a carpet with Dwalin pinning him down that his brain retakes control of his body, and he is filled with shame and self-hatred. What had he done?

He leaves before Dwalin comes back, and disappears for several months. Eventually, though, he returns to the soup kitchen. He has been sober since that terrible day – a difficult, thankless task, but this time he is determined to succeed. He catches her eye, trying to convey his apology through his gaze, and when she tentatively sets his plate down on the opposite side of the table, he says the two most important words: “I'm sorry.”

She smiles, somewhat weakly.

“I know you are.” She pushes the plate toward him. “Eat,” she says. “You look like you haven't had a decent meal in a while.”

“None of the other soup kitchens have you working in the back,” he replies, startling a laugh out of her. He chuckles, shaking his head. “I'm sorry, I don't know where that came from.”

“'Never apologize for a compliment', my mother used to say,” Belle says, smile widening as she grabs an empty plate from another table and walks back to the kitchen.

Thorin waits for her shift to be over, then makes his way to the door, opening it for her as she steps through. She smiles at him, positioning her umbrella to cover both of them as they head toward her home.

After a few months, Thorin barely notices the difficulties of sobriety, though he is reintroduced to the benefits. His temper does not flare as quickly, and he can tamp down bouts of anger long enough to either calm down or go to Dwalin's for a few punches. He is very careful around Belle, doing whatever he can to make up for his lapse in judgment. It is a slow process, and one he sometimes feels like giving up on, but Balin informs him that Belle seems to benefit from their time together, so he keeps going – for both of them.

One summer afternoon, he hears rock music playing loudly from Balin and Dwalin's house.

 

_-I've seen every blue-eyed floozy on the way_

_But their beauty and their style_

_Went kind of smooth after a while_

_Take me to them naughty ladies every time_

 

Thorin peeks in the window in time to see Belle, facing away from him, beat the air with a dust rag and a spray can in a decent impression of a drummer.

 

_Oh, won't you take me home tonight?_

_Oh, down beside your red firelight?_

_Oh, and you give it all you got,_

_Fat-bottomed girls, you make the rocking world go 'round!_

 

Her head is rocking up and down hard enough for her ponytail to bounce up and down with the beat. Grinning, Thorin knocks on the window. Belle spins around, hand clutched to her chest and eyes wide, and glares at him. She waves at him to come in, and he does so, getting a rag in his face once he steps into the living room.

They spend the rest of the day cleaning every surface in the house - “a surprise for Balin”, Belle explains, telling him that Balin's work has been building up over the past few weeks. Rock music booms from the surround-sound speakers installed throughout the house, and Thorin catches himself making air-guitar motions more than once. The mood is light, almost happy, despite the monumental task they undertake. When they are done, they sneak away like the cobbler elves from that one bedtime story, and set up some pop music while Belle bakes. The strawberry rhubarb pie is heavenly, though Thorin nearly chokes when he hears it is Dwalin's own secret recipe, causing Belle to hit him on the back.

She offers him the use of her shower, and, suspicious, he accepts. He has barely dressed in the clothes she nicked from Dwalin when she reappears with scissors, making his eyes widen.

“Relax,” she says, a mischievous grin belying her command. Thorin eyes her warily but sits still as she brings the scissors close to his head.

“Not so short!” he whines, the thought of being shorn an uncomfortable one. She rolls her eyes.

“Do you want to look like a mangy cur when you see your sister again? I didn't think so.” She proceeds to lop off great chucks of snarled black hair, using a comb and a finer pair of scissors once the largest portion lies on the ground. She then blow-dries his hair while his eyes scrunch up tight. Handing him an electric razor, she orders him to shave. He does so, removing every trace of his raggedy beard while she sweeps away the hair on the floor of the bathroom and dumps it in the garbage container. He looks longingly at it as she spins him around again, combing through his hair and applying a gel to it.

When she finally lets him look in the mirror, he does a double-take. His hair is a couple inches long and carefully shaped, accentuating his cheekbones and nose without making him look gaunt. The lack of beard makes his face look thinner, but not unhealthy. Instead, he looks ten years younger. His eyes are brighter, the bloodshot look gone with his drinking, and his irises no longer understated by dirty, sallow skin and lank, unwashed hair. The decent food and better rest of the past few months have given his skin a much more normal color, with a slight pinkness in his cheeks that is probably the result of Belle's appraising gaze.

“Very handsome,” Belle declares, looking proud of her work. “Come on, let's go show Dwalin. He'll be home by now.”

Dwalin spits out the soup he was taste-testing, much to his irritation. Thorin feels more alert than he has in decades, and the grin comes more naturally to his face than it has since he was seventeen.

Belle hands a phone to him, the call already ringing, and he takes it, eyes staring wildly at her, throat suddenly dry. _You'll be fine_ , Belle mouths. The call connects.

“Hello?”

He swallows. “Dis?”

There are several long seconds of silence, followed by an even longer, relieved sigh. “Thorin. Thank God.” Thorin smiles, eyes suddenly moist. “Hey,” he tries, and chuckles brokenly when Dis laughs at his eloquence.

“Hey,” she says, the smile audible in her voice. “There are two people here who would like to talk to you, if you're willing.” He swallows again, and nods, then realizes she cannot see it.

“Yes, please,” he says, his voice gruff.

There is some rustling and static as the phone is shuffled around, then a male voice speaks. “Hello?”

“Hello,” he greets, “who is this?”

“Fili,” the voice replies, then another one, slightly higher, chimes in, “and Kili,” and then they both speak at the same time, “at your service.”

It is something he, Frerin, and Dis used to do. He breaks, free hand going to cover his mouth as he shakes with sudden tears. Belle gently takes the hand out of his phone.

“Hello, boys,” she says affectionately. He can hear their voices from the receiver, though the volume is too low to make out the words.

“He's a bit overwhelmed, is all. He's very happy to hear your voices.” Belle glances at him, a soft smile on her face. She waits a bit longer, and Thorin can hear Dis' voice on the phone.

“Yes,” Belle says, “I think a visit is a wonderful idea.” Thorin nods, still too choked up to speak, and Belle adds, “Thorin would love to see you all.”

The call ends, and Thorin takes a big, shaky breath.

“Come on, Thorin, chin up,” Belle tells him. “Everything will be okay, you'll see.”

And Thorin believes her.

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh, this took a while to write, but I love the way it turned out!
> 
> Soundtrack:  
> What I've Done by Linking Park  
> Here I Go Again by Whitesnake  
> Home by Michael Buble  
> Never Too Late by Three Days Grace  
> Save Me by Queen  
> All About Soul by Billy Joel  
> Fat-Bottomed Girls by Queen  
> I'll Be There for You (Friends theme) by The Rembrandts


End file.
